Fake I.D. Wife

by Patricia Rosemoor

  He was so close he could smell her fear. And for reasons he didn’t want to examine too thoroughly, he wanted to get closer, to inhale the scent of her skin and hair. What the hell, he was just another red-blooded male and she was more woman than most could handle. He ignored the tightness in his groin as he caught a shadow of tempting cleavage peaking from her low-cut top, and forced his gaze above her neck.

  “What makes you think I don’t just want a cup of coffee myself?” he asked her.

  “You’re there, everywhere I look!”

  “You’re looking for me?” Logan asked, cracking a smile and changing the timbre of his voice. “I’m flattered.”

  “Don’t be. That’s not what I said or meant. What do you think I’m going to do in here, steal the flatware? Relax—it isn’t even silver.”

  “And if it was?”

  She said something rude under her breath, picked up her mug of coffee and brushed by him. He tried to figure out why she interested him so much. Plenty of lookers frequented the club. Maybe it was her story. Maybe some part of him wanted to be a sap and believe her. But with his experience, that wouldn’t be easy.

  He poured himself a mug of coffee, saying, “Gideon wants me to keep an eye on you.”

  “What has he told you?”

  “Why? Should I know something?”

  Logan could practically see the wheels turning in her mind as she wondered what he knew.

  Not about to give away his position—he had the upper hand and wanted to keep it that way until he could play it—he said, “Gideon only wants me to look out for you until you get settled.”

  “I can look out for myself. I’m a big girl.”

  “Yeah, I can see that.” Not a girl, though, a woman. A real, live knockout of a woman. But though he might have quit the force, he was still a cop at heart, and he didn’t like offenders, especially murderers. “If Gideon asks me to do something…he’s the boss. So don’t go taking it personal if I stay close.”

  “Just don’t get too close and we’ll be fine,” she countered.

  She said it nicely, like it was a request. But Logan sensed her resentment and recognized a vein of repressed panic under the cool facade she’d pulled together. Considering what she had in mind for her future, he would say she’d damn well better be scared. Kyle Mitchell was no one to mess with.

  Then again, maybe she could take care of herself. If the state could be believed, she’d taken care of her late husband, and he had been a Mitchell, too. And if the state had been wrong…it wouldn’t do his cause any good to consider the alternatives. That maybe she’d been set up, that maybe she was another victim. He couldn’t worry about Elise Mitchell, couldn’t care about her more than any other Jane Citizen—not with what he had at stake.

  He downed his coffee and left the mug on the sink. Brushing off invisible lint from his suit jacket, he buttoned it and headed for the door.

  “Be seeing you,” he told Elise.

  He had his own demons—and a truly innocent woman as dead as Elise’s late husband—to avenge.

  MOVING ALONG Sheridan Road for the first time in three years, Elise felt her blood pulse through her unevenly. She passed the brick posts with signs announcing her entrance to North Bluff. She’d had to do it—she hadn’t been able to wait any longer. She was going to try to get a glimpse of her son.

  Unable to rent a car without a major credit card, Elise had taken the Metra train to the nearest station. Knowing people on the North Shore didn’t walk anywhere unless it was for exercise, she’d purchased a designer silk exercise outfit from a resale shop for a few bucks. With her new look designed by Cass, she was certain no one would recognize her from a distance, or even up close.

  Not that she had figured out exactly how she was going to get anywhere near Eric. She only knew she had to try to see her son in person, to make certain he was all right.

  She pushed herself faster, power-walking past incredible lakefront estates, many of whose owners she had known by first name. The wooded, landscaped grounds were studded with mansions of various architecture—a Swiss chalet here, a Mediterranean villa there, a French château, a Scottish castle. No cost was too great, no fantasy too extreme to be indulged.

  Elise’s fantasy now was a small apartment with Eric someplace far, far away from here, someplace where no one would ever find them.

  Even so, she feasted on sights she used to take for granted. Now each house, each curve in the road, each of the many ravines dotting North Bluff was a precious gift. A new reminder of her tenuous freedom. The landscape shifted slightly with the curve of the lake. She turned east, following a road that would keep her close to the shore. Her walking shoe hit gravel, startling two squirrels into chattering indignantly, one chasing the other up a tree. She smiled and breathed in the unique scent of lake air that swept across an estate’s deserted clay tennis courts. The sights, the smells, the sounds…for three long years having been sensory-deprived of everything that had once been her world, Elise couldn’t get enough.

  When she crossed the deep ravine belonging to the English manor house owned by Henrietta Parkinson, she slowed, ordering her pulse and the ache in her side to do the same. The healing wound was kicking up again.

  She took a good look at the looming wooden structure flanked by woods, and frowned. The windows were open eyes to the house. No heavy draperies, no scalloped shades, no thick blinds. She could see furniture, but no movement inside. No sign that anyone actually lived there. Wondering if Miss Henrietta had finally succumbed to her advanced age, Elise was saddened.

  Her mood altered, Elise crossed the deserted grounds toward the hedge that separated this estate from Mitchell House. One look at the mansion and the image of Brian, letter opener protruding from his chest, immediately shattered her composure. Her husband’s death still haunted her, whether awake or asleep. She hadn’t gotten over his violent death. Hadn’t had a chance to mourn him properly.

  Getting hold of herself, Elise forced the horrible memories of finding Brian dead to the back of her mind.

  The earth was still damp from the rains that continued to plague the area, and the grass-covered ground squished underfoot as she followed the slope that became more wildly wooded closer to the lake. She caught sight of cars in the drive next door near the coach house, a miniature of the mansion with its white walls and red-tiled roof. There was a new green Jaguar in addition to Carol’s familiar sporty red MG, top down, jacket carelessly flung over the passenger seat.

  Knees and insides shaking, Elise followed the hedge down the slippery incline to a thinning spot where she could peer through the tangle of branches and leaves. She could hardly breathe. Her view was of the small backyard alongside the formal terrace. A steady movement in the shadow of the decades-old red maple caught her attention.

  A small figure turned in a circle, blond head bent, focus inward.

  Elise froze and stared.

  Eric!

  She couldn’t help herself. Couldn’t help the roiling emotions gathering in her throat, knotting her stomach. At the sight of the lonely looking little boy, her eyes welled and a single sob escaped her. She covered her mouth and willed herself to stay in control. Even if her mother hadn’t sent her photographs, she would have recognized him instantly. Her son was there on the other side of the hedge, nearly close enough to touch. Filled with longing, arms aching for Eric, caution as insistent as the wind that swept over her from the lakeshore, she sank to the ground and cried silent tears.

  She fought what her mother’s heart urged her to do…to go into that yard, take Eric by the hand and run like hell. A foolish instinct, for they would be caught and she would be sent back to prison. Then Eric would never be safe.

  Besides which, any child would be terrified if he were dragged away from home by a stranger. For that’s what she was, Elise reminded herself, a lump settling in her throat. She couldn’t do that to her son.

  She had to find a better, more clever way…had to figure how to take Eri
c without frightening him.

  She needed more than luck to make this work.

  She needed a real plan.

  A way to get to know him again without being recognized. A way to escape undetected. A way to go underground and never ever resurface.

  So many details, so little time.

  Elise feared surviving her escape had used up as much luck as she was due in her life. Now, if making a deal with the devil was what it took to save her son, she was ready.

  Back in control, she slipped her sunglasses into her jacket pocket. Then she found a tissue and mopped her eyes, thankful the tears hadn’t washed out the colored contact lenses that changed them from the same pale blue as Eric’s to green. She had what she’d come for: reassurance that he was still alive, physically unharmed.

  “Eric, there you are,” said a firm voice, just as a nearby car engine was cut. “You know you’re not supposed to be outside by yourself.”

  Elise focused on the silver-tipped blond matriarch dressed in a pearl-gray suit, strolling across the terrace. Now in her late fifties, Minna Mitchell looked every bit as regal and steel-spined as she had throughout the trial. A woman who dared age to claim her, she had remained slim and fit due to her physically active lifestyle.

  “Now come inside, Eric!”

  “But, Grandmother—”

  “No arguments, young man!”

  A car door slammed as if to punctuate the demand.

  Minna took her grandson’s hand and led him back toward the house.

  Elise found comfort in the woman’s presence. Not that she had ever been fond of Brian’s mother, who had looked down on Elise for her worthless background and had assumed she’d gotten pregnant to trap a wealthy husband. But Mom had told her that Minna now doted on her only grandson, so Elsie figured that while the Mitchell matriarch was around, Eric would be safe from Diane.

  Feeling better than she had in a long, long while, she turned to go—but the man staring at her from the middle of the drive stopped her short.

  “Imagine running into you,” he said dryly.

  Logan Smith! All the air whooshed out of her. What the hell was he doing here?

  CAROL MITCHELL STARED through the dining room’s French doors, out to the lake. Bored, she was thinking of seeking pleasure elsewhere, when she glanced at the next yard and noticed the good-looking man in the pale gray suit jacket and charcoal-gray trousers.

  “Drooling?”

  Carol turned to face her sister-in-law Diane, who was directly behind her. “Why not? I’m a normal red-blooded woman. But I guess that’s a difficult concept for someone who saves her orgasms for real estate.”

  Immediately after Henrietta’s death, her sister-in-law had started bugging Kyle to buy the bigger, more impressive Parkinson mansion, with its conservatory and sunken dining room, but her brother was perfectly content at Mitchell House. Diane had not been fit company since. Not that she ever had been a pleasant addition to the family.

  Back stiff, Diane lifted her chin. “You are right. I always have difficulty understanding the mind of a slut.”

  Carol snorted. “Compliments will get you nowhere.”

  “Neither will your drooling over him.” Diane stepped closer to the window for a better look. “From the looks of him, he has class, unlike your other conquests.”

  For a moment, Carol wondered if Diane somehow had found out about Rafe Otera, the man she had kept hidden from her family for many years. Furious, she asked, “Is that a challenge?”

  Diane gave her a cold stare. “Take it as you will.”

  “I always do, Diane.” Carol licked her lips provocatively. “How about you?”

  A wealth of meaning lay beneath the question. Diane certainly took what she wanted. Like Mitchell House. The frigid bitch hadn’t waited for Elise’s trial to begin, before she’d had her lawyers start the custody battle for Eric. Poor kid, with Diane as his guardian. Poor Elise. A shame that Brian’s death had been pinned on an innocent like her.

  “Maybe you should go after fresh meat,” Diane said. “Just make certain he’s someone who’ll get you out of here.” She waltzed off, head held high.

  Carol was so angry she could spit. She didn’t need a man to take her away; she had her own trust fund.

  Besides, Mitchell House had always been a beacon for her, providing comfort when things hadn’t worked out elsewhere. Like with Rafe. Or, perhaps her life hadn’t worked out because of her lover.

  She glanced out the window. The man was staring at Mitchell House now. Who was he? A Parkinson relative? Or had he bought the mansion before it hit the market? She couldn’t see his expression, but she was aware of a focused intensity.

  Appetite whetted, needing a distraction, Carol considered getting to know the good-looking man better. In a month or so, divorce number three would be final. She needed someone suitable in her life, a man whom she could present as her escort to correct society.

  Rafe would never do, of course, though, God help her, she had never been able to resist the man. Their physical relationship was as potent as her love affair with Mitchell House itself.

  Carol didn’t plan on leaving him—or the family estate—ever again.

  TRAPPED. Afraid. Trying not to concede to panic. Logan recognized the giveaways.

  As if he didn’t know why, he asked Elise, “So what are you doing here?”

  He hadn’t arranged for this meeting, wasn’t even prepared as to what he would say to her. He’d meant to talk to her about his plan that night at the club. But her showing up here made things that much simpler.

  “I was out jogging and I wanted a close-up look at the lake,” she choked out.

  “Jogging?” He continued the pretense. “So far from the city?”

  He could sense she was wondering why the hell he was here, even while searching for a plausible story of her own. He moved in close enough to make her doubly uncomfortable.

  She said, “I like getting away from the city and exploring different neighborhoods.”

  Not bad. She had her wits about her. She was almost convincing.

  “On private property?”

  She shrugged. “I thought this place was deserted.”

  “Actually, I rented this house yesterday.”

  “Y-you what?”

  That had gotten her. “What a coincidence that we both ended up in the same spot at the same time, so far from our usual meeting place, huh?”

  Elise’s green eyes widened, and he could see the edges of her contact lenses move slightly. Tiny red lines striped the whites of her eyes. Her eye makeup was smeared slightly, and the tip of her slightly off-center nose was pink, as if she’d been crying. He glanced at Mitchell House. Maybe Elise had seen her kid.

  “Sorry if I was trespassing,” she said, trying to move around him.

  “Not so fast.” Logan cut off her retreat. She might not be ready to have it out with him, but the wheels were already in motion, so now was the right time.

  “Stop a while. Have a drink with me. We can talk.” He could be charming, when absolutely necessary, and he guessed this was one of those rare times. “Pretty please.”

  He could read her indecision, tried to hide his own tenseness as she kept herself from freaking out. She had to do it, or this plan would never fly.

  “All right,” she finally agreed. “One drink.”

  Logan sensed she would rather bolt. Before she had a chance to change her mind, he led the way to the front entrance of the house, which faced Lake Michigan. From the foyer, they walked past the opening to the sunken dining room, with its table for twelve and matching buffet, then into the living room. If Elise was impressed by the manorial surroundings—mahogany-paneled walls, stained-glass windows, huge stone fire-place and a massive brass-and-copper chandelier older than the century-old house—she didn’t comment.

  Oddly, she seemed right at home. Maybe she’d spent time in the house when she’d lived next door.

  While he stopped at the built-in bar, she wa
lked straight to the windows overlooking the lake, which could be seen through and above the thicket of trees and bushes dotting the hillside. Catching her reflection in the glass, she poked at the wild spikes of her hair with long fingernails painted the same purple as her exercise clothes.

  “What’s your pleasure?” he asked. “Wine? Something stronger?”

  “A sparkling water would be fine.”

  “Coming right up.”

  “It’s warm in here,” Elise complained.

  Nerves were making her warm, he was certain. Good. Better to have her on edge. She unzipped her jacket and slipped it off, let it puddle at one end of the sofa.

  The place had come furnished, mostly with outdated, musty furniture. The lawyer handling the estate was a friend of a friend of Gideon’s and had agreed to let him use the place for a few weeks while Henrietta Parkinson’s estate was put in order. The heirs being out of state, this would take a while, and in the meantime, there was no one to oversee the property directly. Then the house and all its furnishings would be sold along with the dead woman’s other holdings.

  Approaching Elise with her water in one hand, a beer in the other for himself, Logan found himself staring at the exposed expanse of flesh revealed by a hot pink cropped top. A sheen of perspiration licked a muscle-defined stomach. But then she turned and he saw the edge of what looked to be a healing wound—the place where she’d been shot, he was sure. He flashed his gaze upward and was caught by a single line of sweat trickling between her breasts.

  His reaction to the vision centered in his groin. The urge was immediate and strong. He’d like to take her right here, on the couch with daylight rippling in through the stained-glass windows in rainbow patterns. He could imagine the jewel tones dancing over her flushed skin…

  What the hell was he thinking?

  Logan shoved the drink at her. “Here you go.”

  There would be nothing personal in the arrangement he was about to propose.

  Glass in hand, she brushed by him and took a seat on the sofa. He sat in the chair opposite.